


Final Destiny

by pohjanneito



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Valhalla
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28317246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pohjanneito/pseuds/pohjanneito
Summary: They had always shared a united vision of what it meant to be a good leader to their people. Eivor had done his best to create new alliances in Sigurd’s absence, but the words his brother barked at him were laced with bitter accusations and hurtful barbs.Sigurd truly was a changed man.Or: Eivor tries to deal with the aftermath of Sigurd's time in captivity.
Relationships: Eivor/Sigurd Styrbjornson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 94





	Final Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore Sigurd and Eivor's relationship right after the Suthsexe arc and the dramatic change in Sigurd's behavior, so there will be spoilers for the aftermath of his kidnapping. Sigurd is pretty moody in this, and if you've played the game, you know the reason behind it.
> 
> I don't have a beta reader for this fandom, so apologies for any mistakes. I hope everyone has a peaceful end of the year <3

Eivor arrived home with the sunrise. He’d stopped at a small hamlet in Grantebridgescire to allow his mount to have a quick drink from the river, but they had been back on the road before the sweat on her fur had a chance to cool. His limbs ached from the long ride and the injuries he’d sustained in the battle against the mad paladin remained untreated, but his need to get home to his brother was greater than his need for rest.

Buttercup snorted and jerked her head as Eivor guided her to the stables and swung himself off the saddle in a graceless tumble. Her body steamed like water thrown on a hot stone and her exhausted neigh drew Rowan out of his house.

“Eivor! What in God’s name have you done to my Buttercup?” Rowan hurried to the beast’s side and glared at Eivor with sleep-swollen eyes as he patted the horse’s shivering flank. “Don’t tell me you rode her here all the way from Suthsexe!”

Eivor bowed his head in apology. “Forgive me, but I cannot rest until I know that my brother is safely home.” He gave the horse’s muzzle a gentle rub and bid Rowan a hasty farewell.

Most of Ravensthorpe was still in slumber, but the fires in the longhouse burned bright as Eivor burst in through the western entrance. The vast feast hall was empty save for Basim and Randvi who sat nose to nose in hushed conversation, their hands clasped around tankards of ale.

“Eivor,” Randvi gasped, the line of her brow lifting with relief as she hurried to greet him. “It is good to see you, my friend.”

“We were not expecting you back so soon,” Basim said, watching Eivor over the rim of his tankard. “I assume things in Portcestre have come to a satisfactory conclusion?”

“They have, now that my brother is back where he belongs,” Eivor nodded. He swayed a little in Randvi’s embrace as his sleep-deprived mind caused the room to swim like too many horns of Tekla’s strongest brew.

Randvi cupped Eivor’s cheek and traced her thumbs along the deep shadows under his eyes. “Gods, Eivor, you are exhausted. Come and rest a moment, fill your belly with some ale and warm broth.”

Eivor shook his head and pushed her aside with a gentle hand. “No, I must see Sigurd. Is he…?”

“He is resting in our private chambers, worn from the long journey home, but as well as can be expected after--” Randvi fell quiet, something apprehensive flashing in her eyes as she caught Eivor by his shoulder to halt him.

“What is it?” Eivor asked, impatient to get to Sigurd’s side.

Randvi’s expression remained solemn as she struggled for words. “Your brother… he is a changed man, Eivor.”

Eivor eyed the jarl’s high seat and the rooms beyond it. “What are you saying?”

Randvi gave Eivor’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Just be patient with him and do not take his words to heart. It pains me to say this, but he is not the Sigurd we once knew.”

“Can you blame him? Fulke robbed him of his fighting-arm and inflicted numerous cruelties upon his mind and body,” Basim spoke from the table, reminding Eivor of his presence.

They had made peace, the search for Sigurd giving him and Basim a common cause, but the way the assassin held his brother's ear had stoked a jealous fire in Eivor's heart from the moment the man had set foot in Fornburg.

“All the more reason for me to hurry to his side.”

Eivor marched across the empty feast hall, a feeling of dread chilling his veins as he approached his brother’s chambers. Randvi’s maps lay scattered around the study, a lonely sconce lighting the way to her and Sigurd’s bedchamber.

His brother sat on the bed, the red length of his hair undone and falling over his hunched shoulders. Beside him was an untouched bowl of stew and a bundle of Valka's incense, its soothing scent wafting around the room in fragrant swirls of smoke.

Sigurd tilted his head at Eivor’s soft footsteps, but offered no word of greeting.

“Brother?”

Eivor circled the bed, every muscle in his body tensing, as if he had stumbled into a bear den. The stench of filth from the long captivity had been washed away and Sigurd’s princely raiments had been replaced by a simple tunic, the remainder of his arm wrapped in clean linens.

“I rode home as fast as I could and--”

“Leave me be, Eivor.” Sigurd’s throat was raw from the screams Fulke’s cruel care had drawn from his lungs.

Eivor hesitated at the words, but made no move to leave. “I only wished to see that you made it home whole and hale--” He closed his mouth, grimacing at the ill choice of words as his gaze fell on his brother’s severed arm.

Sigurd’s eyes flashed in the soft firelight and he fixed Eivor with a gaze as cold as the mists of Niflheim. “As your jarl, I _command_ you to leave me in peace!”

Eivor dug his nails into his palms and swallowed against the sudden burn of bile in his throat. To be sent away with barely a word after their long separation stung more than the cuts he had suffered from Fulke’s sword. But Sigurd had barely begun to mend, his mind as broken as his body. They could rejoice at their reunion once his brother had regained some of his strength.

Eivor gave Sigurd’s shoulder a gentle pat. “I will speak to you once you are rested, Brother.”

Sigurd gave no response, his gaze distant as Eivor bid him a good night and withdrew from the room, his heart heavy with something he could not put into words.

* * *

The following weeks soaked their little settlement with heavy rainfall, the bleak weather mirroring Eivor’s mood. Randvi spent her days pouring over her maps and meeting with her scouts, occasionally throwing Eivor a questioning look from the alliance map, but Eivor made no effort to plan out their next move.

The thought of riding halfway across the country to solve other people's petty squabbles felt inconsequential when his own brother appeared overcome with a strange mind-sickness.

It was as if their jarl had fallen under dark seiðr, his moods mercurial and difficult to navigate. The scowl he wore on his face as he stalked around the settlement sent people scurrying into their houses; a jarring development, for Sigurd had always been beloved among his clan of ravens.

They had always shared a united vision of what it meant to be a good leader to their people. Eivor had done his best to create new alliances in Sigurd’s absence, but the words his brother barked at him were laced with bitter accusations and hurtful barbs.

Sigurd truly was a changed man.

Eivor sat under the awning of Gunnar’s forge with a whetstone in hand as he waited for their blacksmith to improve his vambraces. He dragged the stone along the beard of his axe, but his gaze was fixed upon his brother who strode out of Hytham’s bureau with the two assassins in tow. They shared a fleeting look, the scowl on Sigurd’s face as dark as the storm clouds over Ravensthorpe.

“Here you are, Eivor, all done,” Gunnar said with self-satisfied joy in his voice. “The ingots you brought for me were top quality and I was able to work in a slot for an extra rune for you.”

Eivor offered their blacksmith a grateful smile and slipped his newly improved vambraces over his forearms. “Thank you, my friend. You outdo yourself each time.”

He made his way up the muddy slope and his troubled thoughts led his feet to the edge of the village.

“Ah, Eivor,” Valka greeted him from the door of her hut, her hands full of freshly picked flowers. “Have you come for another dream?”

Eivor had no desire to waste his afternoon in a delirious haze when things between him and Sigurd remained raw and unresolved. “I fear my mind is too unsettled to make sense of the world of my visions.”

Valka gave him a knowing look and bid him to follow her inside. Eivor pushed the curtain of bones aside and exhaled a relieved sigh as the warmth from the hearth caressed his rain-chilled cheeks.

“You worry for your brother,” Valka said, setting the bouquet of flowers on her work table. She began to sort them with gentle hands, tying them together at the stems with coarsely woven string.

“I do,” Eivor confessed. “He has not been himself since his return.”

The silver charms around Valka’s forehead chimed gently as she turned to look at Eivor, the ink on her forehead creasing with her troubled frown. “He comes to see me when the aches in his body require the aid of my herbs.” She set her flowers aside and reached for an empty pot, the clay of it cracked and chipping with age. “Your brother speaks of strange things, Eivor.”

“You mean the visions he claims to have seen?” Eivor scoffed. His brother had always been fond of flattery and the sound of his own voice, but Eivor struggled to understand the newly inflated ego and delusions of godhood that spilled from Sigurd's tongue. “They sound like the ravings of a mad-man.”

Valka raised her brow at Eivor and bent down to rummage through a small wicker basket in search of something. “And what of your own visions, Eivor? Are the things the High One has shown to you equally mad?”

Eivor gaped at the seer, his cheeks flushing at her question. “My dreams slip from my mind when I am awake. Asgard’s lofty spires feel as distant as the fjords of my birthland.”

“Perhaps, but there is a purpose behind your visions whether or not they linger with you,” Valka said. “I believe that you truly are favored by the gods, Eivor. Is it not possible that your brother is equally blessed?”

Eivor remained silent, for the possibility of there being some truth in Sigurd’s ravings sat ill in his stomach.

Valka poured a drop of honey and flower oil into the pot and sprinkled in a colorful mix of herbs. She sealed it with a cloth of linen and handed the pot to Eivor. “This should ease your brother’s aches.”

Eivor cradled the budle in his hands and offered Valka a grateful smile. “Thank you, good seer. I will make sure that he gets this.”

He waited until nightfall, heading into the longhouse once the tables had emptied and everyone had had their fill of nattmal. Randvi looked up from her maps and cast Eivor a wary look as he approached the door to the jarl's bedchamber.

“Tread carefully, my friend. I fear my husband is in a foul mood.”

“As he has been since his return,” Eivor said, his tongue sharp with long-suppressed frustration.

He strode through the door without an invitation and found Sigurd at the back of the room, prowling like a caged beast, his eyes fixed on his sword that now kept company to the shields the sons of Ragnar had left behind.

“Tell me, what gives you the right to barge into your jarl’s private chambers unannounced and uninvited?” Sigurd barked as he shifted his gaze to Eivor. He appeared unkempt under the fine fabrics of his tunic, his eyes rimmed with dark circles and the braid at his nape unraveling. “If you want an audience with me, you will wait until sunrise like everyone else.”

“I am not here to see the jarl,” Eivor snapped, his tone as sharp as the blade of his axe. “I have business with my _brother_ who acts more like a tyrant than a jarl, and smells like a pile of sun-warmed cow dung. Do you still bathe or are you too busy stalking around the village and scaring our clansmen with your sour face?”

Sigurd gaped at Eivor, visibly struck by the bite of his words. The angry grooves on his brow smoothed away as his mouth split into a stunned smile. “You bold little raven,” he laughed. “No one else in this village would have the stones to speak to their jarl in such a manner.”

“No one else has the privilege of calling you ‘brother’,” Eivor grinned, the tension between them vanishing as if someone had chased it out of the room. He took hold of Sigurd's hand and laced their fingers together. “Come, I have something I wish to show you.”

Sigurd exhaled a weary sigh, the groove between his eyebrows growing deeper. “Eivor… can this not wait until morning?”

“It cannot,” Eivor announced.

Randvi looked up from her maps and offered Eivor a subtle smile of gratitude as he dragged Sigurd out of their gloomy chambers. The village had grown quiet for the night, and only their tame wolf friend was still out, wandering around Petra's hut in search of bones and animal scraps.

Eivor led Sigurd to the edge of the wood, just beyond the small creek that snaked its way down from the hills.

“Do you mean for us to frolic through the forest like a pair of huldur?” Sigurd scoffed, swatting at a firefly.

“No, Brother, I simply mean for you to bathe and take better care of yourself.” Eivor pointed at the tent pitched near the edge of the stream, the entrance lit with small lanterns. “My remark about your odor was no jest.”

Sigurd scowled at Eivor from the shadow of his brows. “You test my patience, Wolf-Kissed.”

“And you test my nose,” Eivor replied, pulling the flap of the tent aside and dragging Sigurd inside.

The air in the tent was hazy and humid from the steam rising from the bath Eivor had prepared for his brother.

“It does not compare to old Mikkel’s bathhouse back home, but I managed to procure some fresh-made soap from Yanli,” Eivor smiled, dipping his fingers into the water.

“O, I see. You mean to bathe me like a helpless babe?” Sigurd demanded, his eyes darkening as he glared at the tub of water. “I do not need your help or your pity, Eivor.” 

Eivor stared at his brother, stunned by the outburst. His jaw pulled tight as the frustration he’d harbored in his heart for weeks on end rushed to the surface. “This is not pity, you bone-headed troll spawn!” he cried out. “It is worry for a brother who I barely recognize, for he is but a shadow of himself, needlessly cruel and full of bile.”

The storm in Sigurd’s eyes seemed to lift at Eivor’s words.

Eivor took hold of Sigurd’s hand and pressed it against his heart, his voice pleading. “Sigurd, Brother, can we not make peace?”

Sigurd bowed his head and pressed his brow against Eivor's. “Forgive me, Eivor… I admit that the rift between us has weighed heavy on my heart.”

Eivor pressed his lips against Sigurd’s battle-callused knuckles. “Then, let us mend it,” he whispered. “I only wish to help.”

“I know you do,” Sigurd sighed, a weary smile curling underneath his whiskers.

The anger that had colored their previous interactions was absent as Eivor helped Sigurd to undress, folding his clothes with care.

“Gunnar did a fine job with this,” he said as he studied the well-crafted buckles of his brother's new harness.

“It was a true stroke of luck that he chose to sail to England with us,” Sigurd agreed, letting out a content sigh as he settled into the steaming water.

There were red welts on his shoulder where the leather straps had strained against his freckled skin, and the design Svend had inked into Sigurd's arm almost two decades ago was no longer complete.

Eivor traced the mangled tattoo with gentle fingers. He had seen his share of battle wounds and knew how to separate a limb from an enemy’s body, but his eyes stung with salt as he laid them on his brother’s arm, hewn in half at the elbow.

His mind wandered back to Valka’s little hut on the mountains above Fornburg, her grim prophecy ringing in his ears.

_You will betray Sigurd._

Eivor shook his head, tightening his hold on Sigurd's arm. He would sooner give up his seat in Valhalla than betray his brother.

He shed his jerkin and rolled the sleeves of his tunic up to his forearms, circling around the tub to take a seat on a small stool. They had not had a chance to bathe together since their arrival in England, and Eivor savored the sight of Sigurd's naked form.

He was quite in love with their little village and everything they had achieved since they’d bid farewell to Norway and its rugged beauty, but there were times when his heart ached for the intimacy they had left behind.

He'd taken a few bedmates in the years that followed Sigurd's marriage to Randvi, but none had found an echo in his soul like his brother.

Sigurd had taken him under his wing when he was only a boy, and they had explored Rygjafylke's sharp peaks and bountiful valleys, clumsily stacked piles of stones marking the places they had conquered together.

He could not recall the exact moment their brotherly bond first turned amorous, but huddling under warm furs in the dark of winter had given way to wandering hands and tentative touches soon after Eivor had grown his first chin hairs.

“May I?” Eivor asked, holding up a clean rag.

“Only if you promise not to compare me to a troll again,” Sigurd said with good humor in his voice.

Eivor’s mouth stretched into a broad smile. “O, you prefer that I compare you to cow dung?”

Sigurd flicked a splash of water at Eivor’s face, his smile as easy as it used to be. He cast Eivor a familiar look over his shoulder, its meaning easy to read. “I’d prefer you to hold your tongue, unless you mean to put it to good use...”

Eivor accepted the invitation in Sigurd’s eyes and leaned in for a kiss. The affection between them had always run deep, clasped hands and passionate embraces as easy as breathing. To be robbed of it in recent weeks had been such a loss that Eivor found himself elbows-deep in the bath, snaking his arms around Sigurd’s shoulders for a proper taste of his mouth.

Sigurd laughed into their kiss. “Your blood runs hot, Little Raven.”

“For you, always,” Eivor declared, his cheeks flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the humid air in the tent.

He used a small ladle to wet his brother’s shoulders, running the cloth over old scars and fading tattoos. There were things that still weighed heavy on his mind, but he feared that voicing his thoughts would break the fragile peace between them and he allowed Sigurd to relax into his touch as he scrubbed away traces of stale sweat and dirt.

Sigurd had always been as strong as an ox, and in Eivor’s eyes, nigh invincible, but his time in captivity had taken its toll on his body. Eivor traced his fingers over barely healed bruises and scars whose shape didn't match any weapon he had wielded.

He wished he could drag the mad witch back from Hel and remove her head all over again.

Sigurd tilted his head, watching Eivor from the corner of his eyes. “You know, those hands of yours could hold more than a wash rag,” he murmured, wrapping his fingers around Eivor’s wrist to pull his hand under the surface

“And what exactly should they hold?” Eivor grinned, pressing a kiss to the shaved side of his brother’s head.

“Show me some mercy, Brother…” Sigurd groaned, thrusting up like an impatient youth. “The Norns have spun our fates apart for far too long.”

Eivor reached between Sigurd’s parted thighs and felt him harden in his grip. “You ache for my touch.”

“I do,” Sigurd gasped, the water in the tub sloshing over the edge as he thrust into Eivor’s grip, his lashes fanning against the gaunt shape of his cheeks.

They shared no blood, but Styrbjorn had been a parent to Eivor longer than his own coward of a father, and he knew the love he felt for his adopted brother was not meant for daylight.

There had always been whispers among the thralls who watched them from the shadows of the king’s hall, unseen but seeing everything. 

"Let them whisper," Sigurd would scoff, self-assured and full of youthful arrogance as he tangled his limbs with Eivor's like the roots of Yggdrasil. "I am their prince and bed who I want."

He strained into Eivor's fist, a quiet groan rolling from his lips as he spilled into the steaming water. “Gods, Eivor, you have given me a taste of Valhalla,” Sigurd sighed, his smile well-sated.

“Valhalla is glorious battles and endless feasting, Brother, there are no bathhouse wenches in Odin’s hall,” Eivor laughed.

“One would have to be blind in both eyes to mistake you for a wench."

Eivor snorted and undid the leather cords in Sigurd's braid to lather the coarse length of his hair with soap.

“We are destined for great things, Eivor,” Sigurd continued, his voice gaining a familiar air of grandeur. “The things I have seen, the things I will show to you, they will leave you breathless with awe, Brother.”

Eivor’s brows pulled together in a troubled frown, the ill feeling he had not been able to name pushing forth from the recesses of his mind.

“You speak in riddles,” he grumbled, dunking a ladle of water on Sigurd’s head.

"I speak the truth.”

Eivor grabbed Sigurd by his shoulders and spun him around, his nails digging into freckled flesh as he resisted the urge to shake his brother. “ _Fulke's truth!_ By, Odin, what did that mad woman do to you?”

Sigurd’s eyes sparked with a strange mania. “She opened my mind, Eivor, showed me who I am, my true self.”

Eivor ground his teeth together, his vision blurring with angry tears. “I know who you are!” He took hold of Sigurd’s arm and held the severed stump up from the water for them both to see. “You are my brother who has suffered through terrible cruelties, because--because I took too long to find you.” His voice lodged in his throat like a fish bone as he bowed his head in shame. “Forgive me, Brother, I tried, but that witch played me for a fool and you paid the price of my folly.”

Sigurd touched Eivor with gentle fingers, stroking them along the curve of his jaw and the teeth-marred skin of his neck. “Little Raven...” He nudged at Eivor's chin and pressed a kiss to his brow like a benevolent ruler whose subject had been caught at mischief. "All is forgiven."

Eivor had followed his brother into countless battles, certain that Sigurd would never lead him astray, his cool head and mind for planning staying Eivor's rash impulses when his battle lust ran rampant. But as he studied Sigurd’s vacant stare and conceited smile, he knew his brother had not yet been saved, Fulke’s madness reaching him even from the afterlife.

Eivor's brows pulled into a defiant knot. No blade or gloomy prophecy could severe the bond he shared with his brother.

He would not allow it.

Eivor stood up and brushed his knuckles over Sigurd’s cheekbone. “Come, I have something for your arm.” He produced the pot of salve Valka had prepared for him earlier, its sweet and soothing smell filled the air as he dipped his fingers into the pot.

Sigurd climbed out of the bath, wet rivulets of water running down the whorls and lines of ink on his muscles as he sat himself on the small stool. Eivor knelt between his parted thighs and took a gentle hold of his arm. “Does it still hurt?” he asked, applying the sticky mixture over the scarred skin where Fulke’s instruments had cut his limb in half.

“The rain makes it ache,” Sigurd confessed, but the airy way he spoke the words made the loss of his limb seem meaningless. “The failings of this mortal form do not matter, for I will soon be rid of it.”

Eivor’s blood chilled at the words. It sounded like his brother was planning to take his place in Valhalla years before his time. He cupped Sigurd’s cheek, still damp and warm from the bath. “Brother… What do you speak of?”

Sigurd turned his gaze on Eivor, the hugr behind his eyes miles away. “My final destiny.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to include any major endgame spoilers in this fic, but if you've finished the game, you know where the story goes from here...


End file.
